


A Christmas Carol

by DracoIgnis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe, Christmas, F/M, I mean of course he is, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Jon is Mr Scrooge, Jonerys, Memories, Romance, christmas tale, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis
Summary: Jon Snow cares more for money than Christmas, and all believe that he has a heart of ice. But perhaps his dislike for the season stems from the love of his life, Daenerys Targaryen. Is it too late for them to reconnect, or can the ghosts of past, present and future help him find his way?A Jonerys retelling of "A Christmas Carol". Contains original artwork.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 48
Kudos: 195





	A Christmas Carol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTarg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTarg/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Jenn! This is a little thank you for arranging the Jonerys Secret Santa. You've done a lot of work for the Jonerys fandom, so you deserve many gifts of thanks from all of us. Hopefully this little tale will find you well.
> 
> Alice (aliciutza) is of course the creator of the amazing moodboard, and Martha (DragonandDirewolf) drew the sweet art. So really it's a case of three gifts from all of us as a BIG thank you!

Surely it was Christmas Eve, for the snow laid thick on the streets of London, yet the fog was even more dense. The flaring candles in the windows could scarcely be seen, and the horse-drawn carriages moved slowly through the descended clouds, their chauffeurs scared to hurry. As Jon exited the Bank of England, he too walked the steps with care, for the stone was shining with frost, and the soles of his shoes so worn down that he could almost feel the cold flatly against the heel of his foot. When he breathed, mist escaped from his lips, and it seemed to thicken the fog before him, so he paused for a moment to slow his breathing as he listened to the sounds of the city.

Echoing down the streets was merry carolling. The songs of cheer mixed with the scent of caramelised almonds being offered by street vendors, the calling from boys selling matches in bundles, and the smell of thinned ale being served at corner pubs. Between the fickle snowflakes falling from above and the holly hung on every shop, one should feel their heart burst with joy at the coming of the season’s most beloved holiday.

Yet, Jon merely retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose, keeping out the fumes from the chimneys which seemed to tease him more than the pleasant scent of cinnamon lingering in the air, and he could only offer his fellow colleagues a grimace as they passed him by, cheerily crying: “Merry Christmas, Mr Snow!”

“Bah!” Jon grunted, “It is hardly merry, is it?”

“Is it not?” a voice asked. It was the voice of his assistant Sam. His cheeks were reddened from the cold, and his fingertips shivering beneath his thin gloves. Yet he smiled a jolly smile as he spoke: “Of course it is - look around, do you not see the cheer the season has brought?”

Jon did look around, but his grey eyes did not rest upon the smiling vendors nor the caroling folks. Instead, it sought the dingy alleyways where men sat red-nosed and drank in the light of day, and women wore skirts so short that their intent could not be disputed. “Bah,” he spoke once more and his voice was gruff, “it has brought more of what I can find on a summer's eve.”

Sam followed his gaze and fiddled nervously with the collar of his shirt. He did not wear a winter coat, Jon noted, in this he was alike himself. But whilst Jon did not own one because he did not care for the price of good wool, Sam clad himself in little fabric due to lack of pennies. This was the truth, although Jon did not care much for it. “Oh, Mr Snow,” Sam said, his voice as overbearing as ever, “can you blame them? They seek the heat of a lit brazier. Do you not see how they shiver?”

“I shiver too, yet I keep any distasteful display of want to myself.”

“It is because you want for nothing,” Sam reminded him.

Jon shook his head, and melting flakes of snow flickered from his thick black locks of hair. “This is not true,” he said, yet he was in no haste to clarify his words. Instead, he carried on walking, his lips a thin line on his face as he carefully watched the ground before him. It wasn’t until his shoes sunk into the deep snow of the pavement that he dared to raise his eyes once more.

“Well, Mr Snow, I shall not argue,” Sam spoke.

“I think that is wise, for was that a past-time of yours, you should seek work in the government.”

“Surely you jest.”

“I take little pleasure in laughter, much less my own.”

Sam bashed his frame with his hands, trying to urge heat into the skin of his body, but he still stood steady next to Jon as their conversation carried on. “A few of us are having drinks at the pub,” he said, “we would like for you to join.”

Jon smiled bitterly. “I very much doubt that to be the truth.”

“Well, _I_ would like for you to join,” Sam spoke, “for Christmas is a time to be shared with those nearest to you, and we could hardly be closer.”

“Sharing a workspace is barely an excuse for recreational activities,” Jon protested.

“Say what you wish - the offer is the same.”

“So is my reply - good evening,” Jon spoke and curtly lifted his hat.

“Merry Christmas,” Sam spoke in defiance. He made the same movement, although he had no brim to close his fingers around, before he turned on his heels and strutted down the street, his frame soon disappearing in the fog.

Jon watched the way he went, but it was with misery in his heart. “Good evening,” he just said to the air, before he too made his way down the street, although in the opposite direction of his colleague.

It was scarcely a good eve, for the further Jon walked, the darker the city turned around him. He left behind the singing, and the joyful calls from the vendors, and instead he let himself be surrounded by the cries of hungering babes, and the smell of unwashed men. For his quarters were in the slum of the city, so far in the outskirts than one could be fooled to think they were no longer within London. Here, little cheer was to be found, and though his heart should be aching at the sight of poverty, Jon felt relief fill his body, for this was a place he understood in his heart, and he could safely call it home.

His chamber was rented for four shillings a day. At times, he managed to make back half his cost by letting some starved traveller stay for a meager two shillings during his hours of work. In fact, he found his best business to be during the holiday season, for then many travelled to the capital to see their families, and plenty of men and women were pleased to pay close to three shillings just for the chance to sleep in a bed.

Still, tonight his chamber was off the market, for whilst Jon did not celebrate the season with cheer, he had his own tradition that was as holy to him as the cathedral to a bishop. As he settled on the edge of his bed, feet facing the faint fire he had kindled in his hearth, it was true to say that he did not lay eyes on any holly sprigs or decorated wreaths or glass baubles. In the sparsely furnished room, just his old dressing gown had been adorned, and this was only by a spider’s web. One could say little merriment was to be found in such a poor man’s place.

Yet, Jon allowed himself a single pleasure that was as dear to him as any gift he had ever received at Christmas since the day he was born; he reached below the bed-frame, and from a wooden box he withdrew a framed photograph.

The print was of a woman. She was just a year younger than himself, this he knew for certain, but her eyes were all the wiser, and her smile all the kinder. Her face was pale, and her hair as fine as snow, and the beautiful locks danced around her shoulders in a way that could make one believe she was not of this world, for to him she was beauty personified. Big eyes. Plump lips. A gentle, rounded chin. A long neck. A dark, simple dress which he knew to be blue, not from the black and white colours on the paper, but from his memory.

It was Daenerys Targaryen. He needed not look at the writing on the back of the photograph to know this. On Christmas Eve, she was as much a stranger to him as any person on the street outside his window, yet he felt in his heart a comfort as he looked into her eyes.

“My love,” he spoke, and he settled against the wall behind his bed, his knees tucked to his chest, as he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. Whilst the snow fell on the other side of the window, and the fire in the hearth died out, he sat awake, like a living statue, and his lips barely moved as he wished her: “Merry Christmas.”

Jon must have fallen asleep, for when he awoke, it was dark and cold - so much so that he had to rub the frost from his lips in order to breathe freely. Not even embers remained in the hearth.

“Why, it is darker than nighttime,” Jon said, “I cannot even see the stars!” He did not remember pulling the curtains, yet he must have for the room to be clad in such pitch black. He groped his way through the darkness, his hands searching for a candle, but he had scarcely stepped off the bed before a light was lit.

There, on the single chair in the corner of the room, sat a woman. In her hands, she held a burning candle, and the flicker of the flame lit up her features. Her face was so very white that Jon momentarily mistook her for the round moon itself. Her hair was dark brown, and it stirred around her face as if she were underwater, still more peculiar was her body itself; for she was clad in a white dress that moved akin a curtain in the breeze. It fluttered as did it have nothing to hold onto, not even a torso beneath the silken fabric.

A strange cold emerged from the woman, but though Jon felt it against his skin, he would not believe his eyes, not even when he looked twice to ensure that she was truly sat there. “It is my imagination,” he said.

“How could it be?” the woman replied.

“How could it not?” Jon retorted. He held on to the collar of his shirt. The fabric felt tight at his throat, and the longer he looked upon the strange sight, the more he felt out of breath. “You cannot be real.”

“Yet here I sit.”

“Indeed,” Jon agreed. “Perhaps I have fallen ill. Strange things do appear to those suffering sickness.” He knew it not to be the truth, for despite the snow of the season, Jon had never once gotten a cold. He believed hard labour to be the best cure for anything, and he did not care much for his assistant’s pitiful sniffles whenever the winds started blowing.

“Perhaps, or perhaps I am made of the same stuff as you,” the woman spoke. It was then she opened her eyes for the first time, and when Jon met her gaze, he felt a terror rise within him.

“It cannot be,” he spoke and fell to his knees as the woman rose. She seemed to float across the floor as she approached him with a gentle smile on her face. “Mother!” Jon cried, “is it truly you?”

“It is I, my son,” the woman spoke. She reached down and laid a hand on his face, and at once Jon knew it to be so; for her palm was soft and warm, and her mere touch brought joy to his heart.

But his mother was dead. Of course she was - he was at her funeral, and he watched as she was lowered into the ground. He had been the first to throw a handful of earth onto her casket, though he had not wanted to. As a child, his heart ached to see the white wood dirtied, and though the priest had promised him her salvation, he felt he only offered her damnation in that last farewell. All the more reason he now worried as he leaned into her touch. “Why have you come at this hour?” Jon spoke and glanced upon her. It was with a shaken lip that he dared ask: “Did I die in the night?”

His mother shook her head. “No, my son, you are very much alive, but what your future holds is for another to say.”

“I do not understand,” Jon spoke. “Why have you come?”

“I come bearing a warning.” Her dress was agitated at her words - the hemline fluttered, and a cold breeze surrounded Jon. He shivered in fear. “You have lost yourself. You started whilst the path was bright, but you have followed the road into the darkest of woods, and now you mistake the moon for the sun.”

“Mother, please speak kindly,” Jon begged.

“I have little time,” she said, “so listen well - you shall be visited by three spirits. One of the past, one of the present, and one of the future.”

Jon felt his heart sink in his chest. “Is this my penance?”

“It is not penance, but a salvation - or, at least, a chance at redemption.”

“Whatever have I done to deserve this?” Jon asked. “You say that I am lost, but I find I have done no wrong; I live sparsely, my situation is rather poor.”

“Oh, woe is me!” his mother cried at his words. “How can you speak those words when your pockets are lined with pounds?”

Jon was dismayed at her accusations, still he defended himself: “It is true, I conduct business well, and it has rewarded me.”

“What business have you done?” she asked, but before he could answer, she shook her head sadly. “Do not tell me of coin, my son, for that is not business of the heart. Where have you conducted kindness, and mercifulness, and selflessness?”

Even if Jon had wished to reply, he would have found himself at a loss for words. As the truth dawned on him, his throat became crass, and he could hardly breathe.

It was all the same to his mother - her hand slipped from his cheek as she rose into the air, her eyes locked with his. The further she floated away, the more her candle seemed to dim, and darkness once more started eating its way in toward him. “My son, reach for the light,” she urged, “or you’ll find it shall never again burn.”

Once more, his mother’s dress fluttered as if caught in the wind. The fabric blew in Jon’s face, and he fought to tear it away as he called: “Please, don’t leave!” But once he freed himself, he found that his hands were closed around the curtains, and his face was stuck out the open window, the cool breeze on his skin very real.

As Jon’s eyes roamed the empty street below, he took in a struggled breath of air. “It was a dream,” he spoke, though his voice carried little certainty. Still, as he looked back at his room, the chamber now partly lit by the light falling in from outside, he found it to be empty. No one was sat on the corner chair. No candle was aflame.

Jon let go of the curtains and sunk down to sit on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands as he sighed: “Just a boy’s dream of his mother.” With a scoff at his own stupidity, he crawled beneath the duvet, his hand resting on the cold picture frame still atop his bedding, and he closed his eyes as he forced himself into a deep sleep.

When Jon awoke, it was pitch black in his chamber. As he glanced about, he found he could not even distinguish a single shadow in the dark.

“Why, I must have slept for hours,” Jon wondered, “yet it is like night still.” Furthermore, the cold had snuck its way beneath his duvet. It was piercing, as if Jon was back on the steps of the bank, his bare skin pressed to the icy stone.

Jon crept out from his bed, and his bedding cracked as the sheen of frost broke across the fabric. His hands searched for his coal-box, though he knew it to be almost empty, for he had not bothered to spend the shillings it would cost to replenish it. After all, heat was free at his office, and there he spent many more hours than he did in his own room.

Whilst Jon attempted to kindle a fire, his thoughts returned to the spectacle of the night. His mother; she had sat in this very room, and he had spoken with her - this was undeniable - yet the reality was that she was dead. So it could not be - a figment of his imagination was all it was. But though he decided within himself that it had all been a dream, his mother’s face still bothered his memory. 

It was then he noticed a light. It started like a prick in the air, no larger than a lonely star in the night sky. Still soon it grew; from a pinprick to the size of a fist, a flame suddenly flickered before him, and Jon stood up from his hearth at once with hope in his heart.

“Mother!” he called to the light, “have you returned?”

But once the light steadied, it was not his mother that it illuminated, yet a sight as dear to him. Before him stood a man, large and sturdy, with brown locks falling from beneath a crown of light, and his eyes looked at him with such kindness that it warmed Jon’s frozen skin. Yet Jon could not believe it, not even when the man reached out his hand and Jon grabbed it, feeling that his skin truly was as real as his own.

“This is a night of the bygone,” Jon spoke in awe.

“So it will be,” the man spoke.

Jon looked into the eyes of the man, and he asked: “Is this real - is it you, father?”

The man offered him a gentle smile. “Merry Christmas, my son,” he spoke, “I have come to lead the way.”

Jon was at first too baffled to return his old father’s greetings - for it was really his father that stood so brightly in his poor chamber, and Jon felt at once embarrassed that he had nothing to offer the man. For whilst Jon was not truly an heir to the family name, the man had treated him as generously as was he his own son. He had wanted for nothing, and nothing he had received once his dear father finally took his last breath. But in life he had been lavish.

He must have noted the struggle in Jon’s eyes, for he spoke before Jon could: “I do not wish to eat, and I do not wish to drink. Those days are behind me, my son.”

“You said you have come to lead the way,” Jon said. “Whereto?”

“Did your mother not forewarn you?”

It was then Jon remembered, and it made sense to him at once. “You are the spirit of the past,” he said. “But of what past?”

“Of yours, of course,” said his father.

“Why have you come?”

“Walk with me,” his father urged, and his fingers closed strongly around Jon’s hand as he led him toward the window. “Walk with me, and you may find salvation.”

Though Jon wanted to follow, he was well aware of where he was being led; his room was rented on the highest floor, and the street below so far down he was sure to break every bone in his body if he was to fall. “I cannot,” Jon spoke, still his father did not loosen the hold on his hand, and he found himself led all the way to the fluttering curtains before he spoke again: “Father, please, I am only mortal - I will surely die if I go!”

“Your mortality is certain,” his father spoke with a sad smile, “but it is not of your past.” With no further delay, he threw himself out of the open window, and with him he dragged Jon who cried in fear as he approached the ground with speed. All he could do was close his eyes and pray.

Alas! - there was no pain, for there was no impact, and once Jon looked, he found his feet were deeply submerged in soft snow. Not the gritty, darkened snow from the streets of London, but the fresh, bright flakes of the hilly countryside. When he glanced up, it was not the dingy slum that stretched before him, but a small village, and it was no longer night time, but a clear winter morning.

“My God!” Jon exclaimed as he glanced about, “This is my childhood town!”

It was indeed; even from a distance, Jon recognised every house, and he knew every person who lived within it. But though it was Christmas - he knew this not because of the snow, but because of the fresh holly on every door - the streets were empty.

“Do you know where they all are?” asked his father. The man was at his side, his presence as warm as any fire, and Jon felt not even the chilly wind as they walked together through the village.

Jon was too mesmerised to speak; his eyes sought the candlelit windows, and the decorated wreaths, and the smoke rising from every chimney as not a single house stood cold. But he also listened, and the closer they got to the market square, the louder the sound of singing. “Why, I know,” Jon said, excitement filling his chest, and he could not suppress the smile that was growing on his lips, nor did he wish to. “They are in church!”

At once, so were they. Jon was shocked when he found himself inside the old stone structure, his back against the gate whilst he faced the aisle. On his left and right, the wooden benches were filled with worshippers dressed in their finest, and he felt at once shy to stand amongst them in his poor nightgown.

“They cannot see you,” his father promised, “they are but spectacles of the past. It is all in your memory - do you not recognise it?” He gestured about, the walls of the church tall, the morning sun bright, and the colours from the stained glass windows lively dancing across the floor and the faces of the choir far ahead of them, their singing echoing between the stone.

“I do,” Jon admitted, his feet slowly walking him down the aisle as his eyes searched the crowds. Did he recognise the scene? Oh did he! - he pointed out old uncle Benjen, who at the time was a strapping fellow, and there! - his childhood friends, all huddled in the corner as they whispered amongst themselves. Surely he had not forgotten his own siblings - his sisters, Sansa and Arya, quietly fighting for the best seat, and his brothers in row - Robb, already handsome, and Bran and Rickon, all but babes by their mothers side. But he paused when he saw a certain young lad on the front row.

There, seated on the end of the row, was he as a child. “Oh, look at me,” Jon whispered, for he looked at himself. He noticed his rounded face, and his black locks combed back, and his white shirt that he only wore for church.

“You were a good child,” his father spoke, and he held forth the candle, making little Jon’s eyes sparkle though the child did not react. “You always behaved yourself.”

“One would not think that just the year before, I had a tragic loss,” Jon sighed, for he knew this Christmas with the Starks was also his first without his mother. “When Catelyn dressed me, I wanted to cry. I wanted it to be my mother who held my hand and walked me to church. I wanted her comfort.” At his own words, he sniffled, and his father leaned in.

“What is that on your cheek?” he asked gently.

Jon soon wiped his eyes in the sleeve of his gown. “Oh father, why did you bring me here?”

“You know why,” his father spoke.

Indeed he knew, and once he saw little Jon’s face lit up, he too turned to glance at what caused himself to fill with joy so many winters ago:

There, from between the bodies of the choir, a beauty stepped forward to sing. She was a pale lass with silver hair tied back under a wreath of holly, and her violet eyes glimmered in the candlelight. When she sung, all in the church held their breath, for her voice was that of an angel’s - so frail, so otherworldly.

> _‘God rest you merry, gentlemen,_
> 
> _Let nothing you dismay_
> 
> _For Jesus Christ, our Saviour_
> 
> _Was born upon this day’_

Jon pressed his hands to his chest to calm his beating heart. Even this many years since he last saw her, he knew her at once. “Daenerys,” he spoke, and he stepped closer to see her face more clearly, for it warmed his heart so very much to gaze upon her. “I do remember - she was godsent, I tell you, father - godsent! When I was at my lowest, she lit up the dark. Just look at her!”

Had anyone back in London heard Jon cry with such merriment, they might have thought him a ghost themselves. But now joy thickened Jon’s voice, and he clapped his hands together in cheer as Daenerys’ wonderful eyes met the gaze of little Jon.

“Oh, just look at me!” Jon cried, “Even then my young face was red with love!” So it was - his little frame shivered as he listened to her sing, and with every verse that slipped from her lips, her gaze returned to meet his, as did she too find comfort in his being.

Jon hugged himself and closed his eyes as, for a moment, he let the signing ring in his ears. “Father,” he said, “I miss her. I miss her so.” But when he opened his eyes once more, she was no longer in the choir, and she was no longer a child. No - there she sat on a bench in the park, now a young woman, and he too sat beside her, a young man.

Jon was baffled - how did they travel time so quickly? He had been so lost in the childhood memory that he had forgotten he was but a spectator and not part of the experience, and so he was confused when Daenerys spoke with kindness not to him but the ghost of himself:

“My dear Jon, do not travel.”

“What choice do I have?” the young man spoke. On his lips was but a whisper of hair, nothing alike the beard Jon had since grown, and he marvelled at how grave his words were despite his age.

“Good Heavens!” Jon whispered to his father, though he knew they could not be heard. “Look upon me! I sit with such curved back as if I were an old man, and my eyes are so restless, as if I am facing fear. Why am I not looking my love in the eyes?”

“Quiet!” his father said harshly, and Jon was shocked at the outburst, “and listen!”

So Jon turned and watched the scene before them as he listened:

Young Jon took hold of Daenerys’ hands. “There is no future for me here. I must go to London - I am sure I can find myself a suitable situation.”

“How is it suitable if I am not there?” Daenerys asked and her voice shivered with pain.

Jon’s fingers slipped between hers with care. “Do you not see?” he asked. “You come from wealth, my dear. I am not of your standing.”

“I do not care what riches you hold,” Daenerys spoke, “this you know.”

“Without riches, how could I hope to marry you?”

“It is not my family you wish to marry, but me,” she said in defiance, “and I am not waiting for a ring of gold. That is not an idol to which I pray.”

“Nor do I.”

“You speak too much of poverty,” she said.

“I have lived it,” Jon replied.

“Is it not true that the Starks cared for you well? Did you not call Eddard your father?”

“I did, and I do,” Jon admitted. He brushed his fingertips across her frail knuckles, his eyes never meeting hers. He just watched their joined hands. “But my mother was poor, and she died from the cold, for she could not afford to light a flame for warmth. God bless her soul! Poverty is hard, my dear, and I would not wish it upon you. I will pursuit to obtain the same wealth from which you came so you shall want for nothing.”

“Oh, I shall want.” Daenerys closed her hands around his face as she forced him to glance into her eyes. Her own brimmed with tears as she said: “I shall want for you. Do not go, for I am not asking you to. Do not speak as if your journey is one I have condemned you to. You have my love, whether at Christmas or Easter, whether in cold or warmth. Stay, and we shall be one. I do not care if you marry me on this very day, with just the clothes we wear, and your lips on mine as our only band. It’s all I want!”

“Oh you fool!” the Jon of the present cried. “Do not go! Listen to her words, and ask for her hand. Do not go!”

“They are the past,” his father spoke gravely. Though his hand on his shoulder was warm, his words were as cold as the falling snow. “What you see is of your own making.”

“You fool!” Jon cried once more, but little did it do; his younger self still stood and let go of Daenerys’ hands, and though he wept, he could only press a kiss to her silver hair as he spoke:

“Goodbye, my love - we shall meet again very soon.”

“I cannot take it,” Jon howled and covered his face. Still, he could hear Daenerys’ sobbing, and it made his heart ache and his knees grow weak. “No more, father, take me back!”

“I see one more shadow,” said his father.

“No more!” begged Jon, but it did nothing. When he opened his eyes once more, he was in London. The city was bustling; oh, he could smell the chimneys, and the ink, for there he stood, a young lad, selling papers outside the bank.

“Please sir!” he called after a gentleman, “‘Tis the best news you’ll read today!”

“The best news would be to see you off the street,” the man spat and walked on.

Jon shook his head at the display. “I was as poor as ever coming here,” he told his father. “I imagined immediate wealth, but it was hard work and labour that met me. Well! It did me good.”

“Did it?” his father asked, his voice less certain than Jon’s.

“It gave me character,” Jon defended himself. “Yes, indeed - if it had not been for me standing in the cold, selling my papers, I would’ve never made enough to buy a nice shirt, and without a nice shirt, I would never have become a clerk, and without becoming a clerk-”

But his father stopped him with a groan: “Oh son! You still only speak of business. But look - what business does the young man there care for?” With this, he pointed to the image of Jon on the corner, his hand in his pocket, as he fished out a photograph. Present Jon recognised it at once - he had it framed, indeed, and he looked at it every Christmas eve with kindness. For it was one of Daenerys.

But whilst he no longer read the writing on the back, his younger self did. “Dear Jon,” he read, “do not forget me. Come home. I am waiting still. Yours always, Daenerys.”

“Go home!” Jon urged himself, and he circled the young lad though he got no attention for it. “Go back to your love whilst you can! The train station is anew, and a ticket is only a few pennies. Go now, and do not look back, for soon all you shall see is gold.”

Still, his younger self did not listen. Instead, he popped the photograph back in his pocket as he turned and waved his paper, calling: “The news of the day! Get it here - news of the day!”

Defeated, Jon returned to his father, and he grabbed onto his coat as he buried his face in the fabric and pleaded: “No more! I have truly seen it all - I can take no more, or my heart might burst!” Yes his father did not answer. “Oh, father, show mercy!” Jon cried. “Take me home!” Still, no word was spoken.

As Jon glanced up, he was in bed, and his hands were no longer clinging onto his father’s coat, but the bedding. He sat up straight, looking around his dark chamber with confusion. “A dream once more?” he spoke to the silent dark.

Still, he found himself unable to stay awake. As if he had not slept in days, his lids closed, and soon he fell back into a deep sleep, the memories of his past just that - memories.

When Jon awoke, he was alert. Once more, he had slept for hours, yet once more he found his chamber clad in pitch black.

“It cannot be,” Jon spoke, and he already trembled in fear. “Will this night never end? I have no sense of time passing. Perhaps this is what death is like - everlasting cold and dark.” His own words filled him with more terror, and he clung onto his duvet as he looked about his room, ready for another spirit to emerge. Still, none came.

Jon counted the seconds in his head. A minute passed. Then one more. Then five more. Still there was no sign of movement between the four walls of his chamber. His heart started settling in his chest, but it made him all the more uneasy.

Unable to contain himself, Jon rose from his bed and started pacing his room. He did all he could to stir the ghost that was sure to come; he shook his curtains with vigour, he patted at his coal-box until its hollow sound tired him, and he even brushed the web off his dressing gown before putting it on, preparing for another long journey through time.

Still, nothing.

“This is most peculiar,” Jon spoke, “for mother promised me three visits, and I have only had the one.” Oh! but what a visit that had been. His eyes got teary at the mere thought. Daenerys! She had been so gentle and kind, and he had thought of nothing but wealth. Surely, he had meant well, this he would not deny. He had hoped for her admiration in his endeavours to become a proper provider. Yet this was never what she wished for, and now he felt a fool. “I should have realised sooner,” he spoke, “and perhaps I too would be having a merry Christmas.”

“It is hardly merry, is it?” a voice spoke.

Jon was surprised to turn on his heels and find light, but not within his room, rather from below the door to his chamber. He watched in awe as the flicker shone bright like the sun, and he knew at once that whatever was to visit him that night would be behind the door. So he placed his hand upon the knob and, sensing that someone was waiting on the other side, finally opened the door.

Jon did not step into a hallway; instead, he found himself back in his chamber. It was his own room, this he was certain of, but it was transformed: along the walls hung holly bright and green, with berries so fat and shiny that he almost mistook them for imitations. The room was no longer dark, but lit with candles aplenty, and in his hearth a great fire roared. It was warm, and it was jolly, and oh! - the smell of food. It led Jon’s gaze to a great fresh tree in the corner.

It was large and grand, and decorated with fine glass figures and flickering candles, and on its top a star, golden and glimmering. The food he smelled came from below its thick branches, for not just wrapped gifts were stacked by its foot, but also plates of turkey and game, and sausages and mince pies, and pudding and pears and oranges and oh! the list went on. Jon had never seen such a feast.

“Shall you want for nothing, or everything?” a voice asked.

Jon turned, and he was shocked, for the man before him was none other than his uncle Benjen. This he knew, for though the man’s face bore more wrinkles than when they last said their farewells, and his hair had greyed, and his skin had paled - surely, it was still him!

“Uncle!” Jon said, “I cannot believe it - first mother, then father, now you!”

“I am of the present,” his uncle spoke. Akin the ghosts before him, he held a light, but instead of a fickle candle, he had in his hand a roaring torch. The flames ate away at the wood, yet seemed to remain in the same spot.

“What can you show me that I do not already know?” Jon asked.

“Have you spoken with your mother?” his uncle asked.

“I have!” Jon said.

“Have you walked with your father?” he queried.

“Yes!” Jon said. “I have! Oh, and I learned - my body is already sore from my own misery. There can be no more. A drop more, I say, and perhaps I shall find my grave.”

His uncle smiled at his words, and truly Jon would have smiled the same had he had the chance to look at himself. For he was a man normally chained to reality, to dullness, to work. He was not one for such dramatic displays, yet here he was, insisting to his uncle that he needed no more pain. Had he not forged this chain of suffering himself? Had he not created every link in the story that had led him here?

“You speak as if Christmas is a time of sorrows,” his uncle said.

“But it is! I look at this display of joy, and I find that I have none. This is a figment of my imagination, is it not? A showcase of what I could have.”

“A man’s misery,” his uncle spoke, “is to only speak of _I_.”

“I do not understand,” Jon admitted.

His uncle held out his hand. “Come,” he spoke, and Jon knew at once to take his hand, “and I shall show you.”

The moment Jon’s fingers touched his uncle’s palm, all disappeared around them; the tree went first, swallowed up as if it was never there, then the gifts and the food, and then the holly from every wall. Last was the light - it was as if blown into them, and for a moment Jon saw only brightness. Then, once he blinked, he was in the cold streets of London.

Alas, it was not the London that he knew. The London that Jon normally saw was this: cold, dark, and bitter, even in the brightest of mornings, for he laid eyes on the poor-stricken folk that lived in his quarters, and who could find cheer in such a worrisome display of need? He found the buildings to all be too tall and too dark, and the streets too narrow for his liking, and the people too loud, the horse-drawn carriages too many, and the boys selling newspapers on the corner too persistent. How grim the capital could look in the smog.

No! - this was not the London Jon visited with uncle Benjen. No! - the London that stretched before him was the same, and yet so very different, for Jon looked upon it with new eyes. Surely the street was just his own, for he recognised the frozen cobbles from his view out the window. But now, the sheet of frost brought joy to him, for he saw was merriment the children found in running up the hill, only to slide right back down it again on their heels, the ice bringing them to great speeds.

What of the grocers there on the corner? Why, he had walked past it often, but never had he glanced in between the gaping shutters with such excitement. For now he saw the display of food he had before found beneath the tree, but look! - there was much more than he could lay eyes on. Piles of oranges, and baskets of chestnuts, so round and brown and shiny. Candied fruit glimmered in the light, grand loafs stuffed with cranberries were stacked, and the smell of cinnamon and sugar and tart fruit lingered in the air, so thickly that when Jon licked his lips, he was sure he could taste it.

The children tasted it too, for they gathered around him, their eager eyes oblivious of his presence, and they called and begged the grocers’ wife for a taste of the sweets. As the boys and girls jumped at Jon’s waist, he found himself not scolding them, but laughing at their pleadings.

“Let them have some!” he urged the woman as she patted her apron. “Can’t you hear how they beg?”

“Hah!” his uncle Benjen spoke. He too joined Jon’s side, but his smile was curious. “Should they not keep that distasteful display of want to themselves?”

It was perhaps a peculiar question, yet Jon recognised his own words at once. He felt embarrassed at once, and his face must have turned quite crimson, for he felt heat on his cheeks. “Uncle, I spoke in err, this I know! That is why I say it again - let them have some!”

He did not need to urge the woman on, for his uncle lifted his torch and there, with a shake of it, glimmer spread through the air like spice, and a smile was suddenly upon the woman’s face.

“Go on, then,” she said and pushed the shutters aside as she held forward a basket filled with sugarcanes, “have one each.” The children cried with such joy that their voices seemed to echo through London, and Jon laughed in a way he had not in years. Years! - he could not truly remember the last time he felt such honest joy escape his lips.

Yet more was to come - as they continued their walk through London, Jon saw uncle Benjen wave his torch many a time; when two shoppers argued for the last toy in the shop, a flicker of the torch made them part as friends, and when a family going to church was bickering about visiting relatives, once more the dust from the flames made them cheerfully agree that Christmas was a time to set aside strides.

“It is a most peculiar torch,” Jon spoke. “Whatever is within those flames?”

“Merriment,” spoke his uncle.

“Just that?”

“Much more - kindness, mercifulness, and selflessness.”

“My mother spoke of all of those,” Jon said in grievous ponder, “and I only now understand why.” Yet, he soon found that he had just grasped their meaning, but not to a full extent. For as they walked on, they entered another slum. It was much alike the one Jon lived in, but not one he had ever frequented. It was with confusion that he turned to his uncle and asked: “What is this place?”

“It is home,” he replied.

“Not mine,” Jon said. “I know no one here.”

“You know one,” his uncle told him, “and through him, you know all. See!” He waved his torch, and suddenly they were within a tiny house. Surely, in comparison to Jon’s chamber the house was big, for it stretched over two floors, and it had a fire in the fireplace, and a chair in its front, the seat looking almost comfortable.

But once Jon looked, he realised space was sparse, for not one, not two, but five children came running down the stairs. They were all apart in ages, girls and boys, and all had joy on their faces, because the door flung open, and a man stepped inside from the cold.

“Father!” they cried, and they ran right through Jon’s frame to greet the man. As Jon turned to look at him, he realised that it was his assistant Sam.

Sam’s cheeks were ruddy, and his frame covered in frost. His wife, a young, lean woman, rushed from the kitchen to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “You are shivering!” she spoke. “Come, come - the fire is on!”

“Thank you, Gilly,” Sam said. Once he was seated, every child tried to climb in his lap, and Jon laughed with Sam at the playful fighting that broke out between the children.

“Look at them!” Jon said to his uncle, “what joy!” Still, he could not help but notice that something was amiss. Perhaps it was the dress that Gilly wore - it appeared many years old, and the brightness that had first fooled him to think it new were just silky ribbons tied over every nick in the fabric. Or perhaps what bothered Jon was the smell from the kitchen, for though the scent was pleasing, the sight that met his eyes was less so. For when the oldest daughter - lean as her mother, perhaps more so! - brought in the goose, it was so small Jon could not think it would feed even one man.

Still, they all cheered and hurried to the table as had they been presented with a Christmas miracle. “How wonderful!” cried Sam. “Gilly, what a feast!”

“A feast?” Jon said in horror, as he looked upon the small bird, and the half-bowl of potatoes, and some chunks of vegetables with their corners roughened black in the oven. “Tell me, uncle, is this truly their feast?”

His uncle Benjen nodded solemnly. “It is.”

“This just saddens my heart.”

“All the more reason for my light,” his uncle spoke and waved the torch. If Jon had found Sam’s family jolly before, he had no words to describe them now - as they ate, they had nothing but compliments for the food, and ah! - there had never been greater meat eaten, and oh! - there had never been better potatoes, and God! - were they blessed to spend Christmas with those they love the most.

“We must give our thanks,” Sam spoke, and his family nodded in agreement. They were all still huddled around the table, their shoulders pressed tight to one another. “I would like to make a toast to the founder of our Christmas - Mr Snow.”

Jon was so surprised to hear his name spoken than he gaped at his assistant. “To me!” he said.

“To Mr Snow?” Gilly asked. “Don’t be daft! My dear husband, he sits so tight on his money that I am surprised he has an assistant at all!”

“It is the same to me,” Sam spoke, “my dear, it is Christmas, and who knows if he has anyone to celebrate with?”

“His coins, I am sure!” Gilly huffed.

“My dear,” Sam spoke again, “it is Christmas! We have one another. Is that not reason enough to wish cheer on someone who does not?”

“Very well,” Gilly spoke, and she raised her glass, and so did all the children. “To Mr Snow, wherever he is.”

As the family drank, uncle Benjen turned to face Jon. “Speaking of love,” he said, “how is yours?”

Jon shook his head. He could barely think, tears in his eyes at the wonderful thought that his assistant - his poor, lovely assistant! - cared to think of him, even as he sat with his family on Christmas day itself. “I have no love,” he spoke, “but for that of gold. Did you not hear? That is my downfall, I am sure of it!”

“Are you certain?” his uncle asked, “for I believe your heart beats still for one.”

Jon could not bear the thought, and he shook his head with vigour. “No one makes my heart beat but myself!” But as he stopped shaking his head, he knew whom he had to face.

Yes, the scene before him had changed once more. He was in a splendid hall - indeed, greater hall he had never seen. It was decorated well and richly, and so was the table before him. What a change from poor Sam’s house! Here, the wood was covered with a fine, white cloth, and upon it was delicate porcelain plates and glasses recently washed, and the cutlery was of fine silver, and the napkins thick and soft. But the food! The food was grand turkey, the meat still crackling from the heat, and the potatoes filled more than five bowls - five! - and there was cabbage, and sprouts, and thick ham, and crisp Yorkshire puddings, and oysters, and oh so many pies with fillings so plentiful that Jon could not even count them all!

“Who lives here?” he asked, though he knew already, and his uncle did not bother to reply. He merely shook his torch and at once the grand door to the hall opened, and in came a crowd of guests. They were all so finely dressed - the women were clad in silk, and the men their best suits. “Heavens!” Jon said as one passed him by, and he recognised him by the silver hair. “That is Mr Viserys Targaryen - why, I recognise him at once! How he has grown!” Then, more people passed him by, and, just like he had in church, Jon pointed them out to uncle Benjen: 

“There, that is Rhaegar, I am sure of it. Look at how he struts! And that is Rhaella, her beauty is well known! Oh, look, uncle, that is Aemon! My God, he still lives!” But when Jon turned once more, his voice died at once. It seemed to him that all the chatter in the room was far away, as was he listening through a window, and the lights were dimmer, as if falling in through aged shutters. For his eyes could only take in one thing, and one thing only - Daenerys Targaryen.

By Heavens! Jon’s breath was taken away. For she was more beautiful than he could ever imagine. Her hair was long, parts of it curled in brilliant twirls around her face, and her neck seemed elongated by the deepened cut of her brilliant green dress. The fabric fell around her slender frame like water off a cliff, so elegantly did it ride just above the floor when she walked.

For a moment, Jon thought that she saw him too, for she stopped before him, her eyes looking into his, and he was shocked. For despite her beauty, and despite the wealth around her, she carried sadness on her face.

“Uncle,” he whispered, and he worried she might feel his breath. “Whatever has happened?”

“What do you mean?” his uncle asked.

“She is in such despair - I can feel it.” Jon reached out, wondering if he could lay his hand upon her cheek - but he went right through her, and the sight shook Jon to the core.

“Nothing has happened,” uncle Benjen spoke, “that hasn’t already taken place.”

“Is this not the present?” Jon asked. “Can this not be mended? Come!” he cried, and he reached for his uncle’s torch, “shake your magic upon her! Make my love smile! I cannot bear it!”

“My torch cannot mend her,” his uncle spoke yet still he shook his fire to make a point. Jon watched the glimmer go through the air, and he saw how it worked, for people started laughing and dancing, and even Viserys’ sour lips twisted into a grin as he cracked jokes with his companion. Yet Daenerys was as sad as before.

“Why is this?” Jon asked.

“She carries a sickness,” his uncle replied.

“A sickness! Tell me it is not so! Why is she at a party? I should rather she was at the doctor!”

“Not a sickness that can be cured,” his uncle replied. “It is a sickness of the heart - a longing, a grief.”

“For what?” Jon asked.

His uncle just shook his head sadly, and they stood side by side as they watched the party unfold:

What splendor! First, they all feasted, and they all drank, and their chatter was so cheery that it filled the room, however grand. Course after course came out, brough by waiters in starched shirts, and whenever a new dish was revealed, so was a joyous whining. Pudding! Such great pudding. Cake! Better yet. Mince pies! Too many they all ate, so they said, their stomachs too full to dance.

Yet, dance they did. One after another, they displayed their talents at the grand piano, and all listened before they all danced. Carols were sung as men bowed to women, and women curtsied to men, and they swung around like couples. Even Daenerys allowed her brother Rhaegar to lead her in dance, but once it was over, she stood to the side, just watching the merriment in front of her with no apparent desire to participate.

“She mustn’t be sad,” Jon begged.

“Why is that?” his uncle asked.

“Why, it is Christmas!” Jon spoke, and at once it dawned on him - it was Christmas! A holiday of cheer! “Yes, indeed, it is Christmas - I feel it now! I understand it now! She should not be so sad at this time of year.”

“Her heart is pained,” Benjen spoke.

“So you say, but by what?”

Yet once again, his uncle just shook his head with sadness, and Jon could no nothing to help his love.

As the party carried on, all guests got tipsy. It was apparent on their faces, for they all had reddened cheeks and restless eyes, but truly it was in their conduct that Jon saw the change; they bumped into one another whilst dancing, all laughed a bit too loud, and Aemon fell asleep in his chair, his face resting on his wrinkled hands.

It was then that Jon saw Daenerys make a move. As no one watched - or, if they did, they did not care to notice - she slipped into the hall, asked for her coat, and out into the cold she went. Oh! - it was bitter cold. The wind blew harshly, and the fresh snow danced around her as she walked the village. Jon tracked behind her, eager to see whereto she was heading, but too focused on her frame to recognise the way.

“She must be cold!” he spoke, and he did see her shiver. It filled his heart with pain. “She should not be out in this weather, not on Christmas day itself! She should be at home! What are you doing, love?” He reached for her hand, eager to pull her back into the warmth of the Targaryen estate. But once more, his fingers slipped through her, and instead he fell. His frame was engulfed by the snow, and darkness took to him once more.

But only for a second; once he opened his eyes, he was warm again, and he was home. Truly, he was home! Not in London, nay - he was in the Stark estate. There, on the bannister, hung holly, and in the kitchen on his right tea was brewing, and on his left, in the dining room, all sat chattering over the scraps of an already eaten Christmas dinner.

“My God, they are all here!” Jon spoke in awe. Yes, they were all there - the eldest, Robb, with his cheery wife by his side, and his sister Sansa, her cheeks reddened from something her fiance Theon had spoken (Jon was sure it was a poor joke, for Theon knew many of those!), and Bran, his sombre face for once bearing a quiet smile, and Arya, bless her heart, in a nonsensical conversation with the youngest, Rickon, who both blabbered the way all boys do. “By Heavens, to see them all together!”

“They sit as they do every Christmas,” his uncle spoke, “but one shadow is still missing.”

“Catelyn,” Jon guessed as he spoke his stepmother’s name with pity. He had as little love for the woman as she did for him.

His uncle shook his head. “She is long dead, just like the ghosts you have met tonight. No, listen!” and Jon did listen, and he heard a knock, and he saw a commotion, for all his siblings stood and fought to be the first at the door.

Alas! Arya beat them to it. She hurried under the table and crawled across the carpet, just in time to push Robb aside as she claimed the knob and opened the door.

“It is her!” Jon cried. For there in the doorway stood Daenerys; she was covered in snow, and her pale skin was shivering from the cold, still she smiled more than she had at her lavish Christmas party.

“Dany!” Arya said and hugged her frame, and Daenerys returned the hug as was Arya her very own family. Soon, others joined them; Robb was hugged, and he even got a gentle peck on the cheek, and so did Sansa, for his sister was as friendly with Daenerys as any family member. Bran and Rickon both got their hair rustled, and Theon pecked not only Daenerys’ right cheek, but also the left, claiming that it was the norm in Europe.

“Why is she here?” Jon asked Benjen, although he did so with a smile. He felt joy in his heart seeing his family so welcome Daenerys. How could it be? When he lived in the village still, they never celebrated together!

“Why, she is here every Christmas,” his uncle spoke.

“Truly!” Jon cried in surprise. “Yet I have not accepted an invite even once. What a fool, what a fool!”

Once more, they stood and watched as merriment took place, for again the women claimed the piano, and they all danced to carols. But this time, Daenerys was not a spectator, but a merry participant; Oh! she played the piano wondrous. Oh! she sung even better. Jon had become so light of heart that he did not even think not to join - he danced around as she sung, the carol so familiar to him, but the sound ever so sweet from her lips:

> _‘God rest you merry, gentlemen,_
> 
> _Let nothing you dismay_
> 
> _For Jesus Christ, our Saviour_
> 
> _Was born upon this day’_

“I feel it!” he called to his uncle who stood watching with laughter on his lips. “I feel no dismay, only joy! Dear uncle, you have gifted me a lovely moment! If only this could be!”

“But it is,” his uncle spoke. “It is the present. Listen!” - and once more, Jon paused to listen, for a conversation was taking place between Daenerys and Sansa.

“Did he truly not come?” Daenerys asked, and Sansa shook her head with sorrow upon her brows.

“He did not reply.”

“I fear London has eaten him alive.”

“It may be so!” his sister spoke, “for if he was dead, we would know just as much as we do now.”

“Oh, do not speak such cruel words!” Daenerys begged. “It is Christmas! I would much rather imagine him merry and well.”

“Who are they speaking of?” Jon asked his uncle, but, as always, he got no answer.

“I miss him so very much,” Sansa spoke. “Look! There is such joy in this house, yet I feel that without his presence, the lights are dimmed, and the sweets are no longer sweet.”

“This is true,” Daenerys spoke, “for I feel the same. Your dear brother gave me a reason to live when sorrows filled me, and he gave me love when his eyes rested upon me. Young love! How I wish it had grown old.”

Sansa laid her hand upon Daenerys’ shoulder, just in the same way that Jon wished he could. “Dany,” she spoke, and her voice was so familiar as was she offering advice to a family member and not a stranger, “I am sure wherever he is, he has you in his heart. Truly, I am sure of it! He loved you dearly, and he loves you now. In his own peculiar way.”

“But it is not enough, is it?” Daenerys asked, and her voice was sad. “What good are words when never spoken?” There seemed to be more she wished to say, and Jon was longing to hear it. Yet, their conversation was interrupted by Robb.

He stopped in front of them, out of breath from dancing, as he asked: “Whatever are you two whispering about?”

“Just wishing all a merry Christmas!” Daenerys said. At once, she was given a glass of mulled wine by Bran, and all raised their glasses in a cheer.

“To the Starks and Targaryens - a merry Christmas to all!” they called, but Jon heard another whisper, one from Daenerys’ lips as they all drank.

“And my love to the Snow,” she said, “wherever you are.”

“Please!” Jon cried as he turned to his uncle. He held onto his coat, the same way he had held on to his father, and he begged: “Please, uncle, I wish for nothing more than to hold her! I wish for nothing more than to bring her happiness! Let me, oh dear spirit of the present, let me be just that - present!”

“Here are your presents!” his uncle said and waved his torch, and all around him was no more.

There stood the spirit of the future. He had not spoken, yet Jon was sure of it; the phantom was a hooded figure, grim and dark, and his shadow seemed as large as his frame itself.

Jon was not in his chamber. In fact, he was nowhere at all. It seemed they were on the plains of darkness, for wherever he looked, he saw nothing. Truly nothing - not a star above, not a blade of grass below. It was as if he stood in nothingness, and looked into nothingness. It was a terrible feeling, and Jon did not know what to do with himself.

As the hooded figure approached, Jon built up the courage to ask: “Are you the spirit of the future?”

The figure said nothing. It stopped before him, and there it paused.

“Well,” Jon said, “it is all the same to me - I have nothing to lose that I haven’t already lost. Show me! Show me the future!”

Slowly, the hooded figure nodded, and it turned and started leading the way. Jon, being familiar with the pattern of things by now, merely followed.

Yes, there was nothing around them as they walked, yet Jon felt eyes upon him all the same. Eyes of judgement, of want, of judgement, and - worst of all - eyes of _pity_. He wanted none of it - it was as said, he had forged the chain himself, and now he was bound to wear it. Pity! - that could be spared for someone in need. He was not one, he knew, and he would never be.

As they walked, the nothingness subsided and was soon replaced with streets. Why, Jon knew the city - it was London! He was back in the capital once more. When he glanced around, he expected to be in the slum again, the poverty known to him, but to his surprise they were walking the halls of the Bank of England. He knew the place well. He felt its warmth. But he did not hear it in the whispers around him.

“Did you hear?” someone spoke - a fellow Jon did not recognise. “It seems he died last eve.”

“What a time to die!” someone replied. “Christmas!”

“It’s all the same though, is it not?” the first voice asked. “What’s Christmas but another day when all alone? I doubt anyone had his soul in mind, dear Heavens! I surely did not.”

“When is the funeral?”

“Why, I think tomorrow. Should you care to go?”

“I would rather dance with the Devil!” This reply earned much laughter, and it seemed to echo around Jon as he walked. His frame shivered.

“What is this?” he asked the hooded person before him, “Why am I listening to this?” It seemed like such trivial talk. Cruel, but trivial. Oh, how Jon himself had dappered in such talks at his job. There were plenty of colleagues who came one morning and didn’t show the next, and all you could do was speculate. Cold took many lives during the winter, and he had plenty to do in the day. No time to worry for nameless men! “Could it be,” Jon wondered, “that this is someone I know?” Still, he hooded figure did not speak.

If Jon was annoyed, he did not let it show, and if he was scared, even less so. Instead, he merely followed, his body hunched, for he wondered what situation he would find himself in next. In truth, he had not wonder long, for soon he saw something known to him.

As they walked down a snowy street, he recognised his home at once. “That is my chamber up there!” he spoke with joy, not for the chamber, but for the fact that he now found himself in a known area. He pointed at the window. “Look, spirit, look!” - and lo! the hooded person did stop to face the window with Jon, but before Jon could revel in the joy of having connected to the future, he laid eyes on something strange.

There, in the window, was someone he did not recognise. They peered outside only for a second, but it was long enough for him to know they existed. “Who is that!” he called but, having no answer, he rushed inside.

Perhaps he should’ve known to take more care by now, but Jon hurried upstairs all the same, and when he entered his room, it was with anger burning in his eyes. “Who are you!” he spoke to the folk within.

There was a woman. She stood huddled in the corner, her fingers digging through his closet, and she had a scornful look on her face. “Nothing in here!” she moaned. “Oh what a bother, I feel I have wasted my time!”

“What with!” Jon demanded to know, though he knew she could not hear him.

“Don’t worry, I think I got my hands on something!” a man spoke. Jon turned to him at once; he was on his knees, and from beneath the bed-frame he retrieved a wooden box. Jon recognised it at once, for it was _his_ wooden box!

“That is my property!” he shouted as he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He stomped to the man’s side and attempted to grab it, but no sooner had his fingers reached the box than they slippered right through it. He was so engrossed in the situation before him that he had forgotten it was not real. “That is true!” he said, “this is the future, and I cannot alter it at once!” Still, he felt uneasy as he watched the man open the box and glance upon all within.

Atop was the photo of Daenerys. It was as dear to him now as ever. “My love!” he said the moment he laid eyes on her, and he did so for a while, for the man held up the photo with curiosity. “My love, I understand now, I know now!” But before he could clarify his realisations, the man shrugged and flung the picture aside as was it naught.

As the glass shattered on the floor, Jon cried in despair. “How could you!” he said, and he knelt next to the frame, misery filling him as he realised he could not even touch the broken pieces. There was no way for him to mend the damaged photo before him. “How could you!” he cried once more.

Yet the man seemed not to care. He continued to dig through the box, and once his hand closed at a bag of coins, he shouted with glee: “Riches! I have found them - riches!”

“Oh dear!” the woman called and returned to his side. “Riches indeed! We shall have a very merry Christmas indeed!”

“Thieves!” Jon shouted. He tried to grab at them both, but he fell right through their bodies as they danced about his chamber, crying with joy. “None of that is yours!” Jon stood back up, ready to face them again, but he found himself looking upon his bed instead. Something was within it. Something that he did not know. A figure? Perhaps. It laid still beneath the covers. Like a statue. “What,” Jon spoke, and he had to pause because he somewhat knew the answer, yet he did not dare to linger on it, “is that?”

The spirit of the future slippered to his side, and its presence darkened the room so much so that Jon could no longer make out the bed.

“Who was that?” he asked, and he turned to the hooded figure who gave nothing away. In his body he felt a tremble of fear - death! He was sure of it. He had seen death, but whose? Who had died? Whose death did so many people revel in?

But before he got answers, he turned and found his surroundings quite changed. He recognised the place, for he had visited it before with the spirit of the present. “Yes!” Jon spoke as he laid eyes on the woman by the fire. “Gilly! That is her name. She is the wife of Sam, I know her!” His voice was excited, yet it soon died out as he walked around the chair to see her face. For she was not smiling like one should on Christmas day. Nay, she was crying - tears slipped down her cheeks, and she was rocking herself back and forth.

“Spirit,” Jon said gently as he knelt at her side, his hand on hers though he knew she could not feel it, “why does she weep so?”

Once more, the ghost said nothing, but this time it did raise it hand to point at the staircase. When Jon looked, he counted the children before him - one, two, three, four…

“Where is the fifth?” Jon asked. He glanced about before turning to the hooded figure. “Sam has five - where is the fifth?”

In the same, the door swung open, and Sam stepped inside. As before, he was covered in snow, and the children rushed to his side. Yet there was no laughter, and no one wished the other season’s greetings. In fact, as Jon stood and looked into Sam’s eyes, he found pain. Sorrowful pain!

“Oh, it is done,” Sam spoke, “as should be. I placed the flowers upon his stone.”

“Speak not like that!” Gilly urged through her tears. “My heart cannot bear it!”

“Why would he lay flowers on Christmas day?” asked Jon, but he knew at once - the child was dead. The thought alone made him cry along with Sam. Oh, all the children had been so merry in the present, despite their situation. How could he imagine a Christmas without them all? - and he had only seen them this once!

“You must all seek a situation sooner than I thought,” Sam said, though Gilly shushed him. “Please, my dear, it is true - we have not enough to feed all. This should be evident. Our own poor son! So frail. So light. Too light!”

“He is with God,” said Gilly, “and that is more than all of us could wish for.

“Too light!” cried Sam again, for he was in such deep despair that he could not think of anything joyous.

“Spectre,” Jon spoke as Sam held on to his family, their wailing not befitting for a season of merry, “does it have to be so? Does he have to feel such pain? Please, can the child not live?”

Yet the hooded figure merely pointed a bony finger once more, and Jon followed its gesture as he looked behind him.

Once more, he had moved, and he had not even known it to happen. Why! - he was in a rich home. He did not recognise it, but he knew at once it was so, for the estate in which he stood was wondrous. So finely decorated, so warm, so filled with joy! It was evident in the small children roaming about the halls, shouting and laughing and playing games. The Christmas tree stood tall in the living room, and beneath it were presents aplenty, many more than Jon could count, and on the table, a feast ready to be devoured. Oh, what a change from Sam’s poor quarters! Here, there was surely no sorrow to be found?

Yet, Jon’s eyes sought the figure by the window. It was she! Daenerys, he had no doubt. Yes, she had aged, but not by much. Perhaps a few years had passed, and surely a few pregnancies judging by the many children crying cheerily upstairs. But her face was not one of joy - it was sorrow he found in her eyes as she glanced upon the falling snow.

“Spirit of the future,” Jon spoke, his voice quiet, “why is she so sad? Do not tell me that her past, present, and future holds tears, for I cannot bear such misery to befall my love!” He looked around and decided that no, it could not be so - she had all wealth could buy! How could she stand there with a pained expression on her face? Yet she did, and it grew darker by the minute until she suddenly turned and called for her maid.

“Please,” she said to the woman, “watch the children ‘til my husband returns. I must go.”

“Of course, madam,” said the maid and curtsied. She helped her mistress into a coat, as thick and rich as any Jon had ever seen, and, once more, Daenerys took off into the snow.

“Where are you going now?” Jon asked as he followed closely behind her. His steps were hurried, still he found it hard to keep up with her, for she was almost running through the village. Her legs shivered. Her hairdo was coming undone. Her silver locks danced in the wind, as beautiful as any image yet one of a hurry he did not quite understand.

“Daenerys!” he called, “are you heading for my family?” - but she did not turn onto the road leading to the Stark estate. No, she went up the hill, past the market, and through the gates to the grounds of the church, and she did not stop until she reached a grave.

Why, it was new. The stone was recent, though he could not read the writing through the snow that had settled upon it, and the ground seemed freshly turned. As he paused, he was breathless, moreso at what happened next; for Daenerys, his strong, beautiful love, threw herself onto the ground, and her hands hammered to the frozen earth as she wailed:

“How could you leave me!” Her shout was loud and pitiful, and it shook Jon to the bone. He grasped around his own frame, shocked at the sudden display of emotions playing out before him, and he scarcely knew what to say. Still, Daenerys wailed: “I urged you, nay, I _begged_ you to return, but I never imagined it would be in a casket!”

“My God!” Jon whispered. “Whoever has died to cause her such grief?”

The phantom slipped to his side, its frame bathed in shadows as it lifted its hand once more and pointed to the stone.

“I see it!” Jon said, “but I cannot read it!” As if on cue, a cold wind blew, and parts of the snow fell off the name. Alas! - he recognised the year. “By Heavens!” Jon cried, “that is only five years from now!” Once more, a wind blew, and the first part of the name was revealed: Jon. “Nay!” he cried, and a terror rose within him. “I will see no more, spirit! Please, let me see no more!” He covered his face as he wailed, but the spirit did not care for his crying.

It stepped before him, its shadow falling over his frame, and it forced his hands off his face as it made him look at it. Oh! - how Jon did not want to look, yet he did.

“It is I, is it not?” he asked, his voice frail. “It is I in that bed? I am dead! Is it not true? I have failed all, and I have lost all! Even my life I have given, and for what? Misery, misery!” He reached out and closed his hands at the hooded person’s cloak, and he tugged at it as he begged: “Please, tell me this is not a future set in stone, for what purpose do I have if I must lead such a painful existence with no hope of redemption? Please! Tell me I can change!”

At once, he tugged so furiously at the fabric that the hood fell from the person’s face, and Jon was shocked to see who stood before him:

It was he. By Gods, it was himself! Older, and pale, and his eyes wild and lost, but it was him all the same! Jon could not look, and he tried to step away, his feet walking backward to retreat from the spirit. But he found himself falling into a freshly dug grave.

By luck, Jon managed to hold onto a root in the ground, and though his feet dangled in the air, he knew himself to have a hope of salvation. When he glanced up, his eyes meeting his own, he cried: “I understand! I see all I have done wrong, all misery I am causing, and all damnation that will come!” He forced his other hand around the root as well as he continued: “Please, lead me home! Oh spirit, lead me home, and I shall change! I _am_ changed! I am a new man!” But when he looked at his hands, he found it was no root at all that he was holding onto, but the ghost’s pale, bony fingers. In horror, he let go, and he could only wail as he fell through the air, his frame descending toward the casket in the ground as it opened beneath him and welcomed him home.

He was home!

Jon sat up in his bed at once, for it was just that - a bed, not a casket. For a moment, he did not believe it, and he touched himself to ensure that he was truly alive. Yes! - his hand did not go through his frame and oh! - the bedding was soft between his fingers. When he looked around, there was no longer darkness, but pale morning light, for it shone brightly through his drawn curtains.

“I live!” Jon spoke, and he stood up in bed with as much vigour as a child. “I truly live! And from now on, I shall live with all three spirits within me - oh, hear all, past, present, and future! I shall heed your words, and I shall follow your guidance!”

How long had be been asleep for? How far has he truly travelled? Jon did not know, but he hurried to his window all the same and flung open the shutters. When he looked out, the cold breeze welcomed him, and it tickled his face and made him chuckle like never before.

There, one the pavement, a lonely boy walked. “Hallo!” Jon cried to him, and the boy gave him a most peculiar look though he replied:

“Hallo, sir.”

“Tell me!” Jon called, “What day is it?”

“Why, Christmas day!” the boy replied.

Jon felt his soul fill with glee. “It is Christmas day,” he whispered in awe. He had only slept one night! A single night, yet his whole world had changed. Oh how a few hours was all it took to make him a new man, a better man! He felt revived at once. “My dear follow,” he said, “I need you to fetch a turkey from the poulterer’s. Not a small one, mind - a large one!”

“How large?” the boy enquired, and it made Jon laugh.

“Oh, as large as you!” he spoke.

The boy rolled his eyes. “Sure!” he said.

“I mean it!” called Jon. “Bring it here, and I will give you a shilling. Nay! - bring it in half an hour, and I will give you three!”

No one had ever seen a boy run so fast! Truly, he sped through the snow, as quick as a breeze, and Jon chuckled as he closed the shutters and turned to face his closet. “What a day!” he said, “why, it calls for good clothes!” And indeed, no one had ever seen Jon in better garbs - he put on his best suit, the colours bright for he had never before worn it, and with a walking stick in his hand, he made his way outside as he awaited the boy’s return.

His little legs must have hurried, for he returned almost at once, a man by his side holding the grand turkey and yes! - it was truly as large as the boy.

“Splendid!” said Jon, and he paid the boy as promised - in fact, he paid him thrice the promised, for Christmas is a time for miracles. “It is so large, you will never get it to my good assistant’s place in time. Here! I shall fetch you a cab.”

No sooner had the two of them taken off toward Sam’s house before Jon strolled into town, a merry smile on his lips, and all who saw him were surprised, for he wished them a merry Christmas, a happy season, even a jolly good time!

Perhaps it was late for Christmas shopping, yet Jon did it all the same - he bought a lovely coat for Sam, and a silky dress for Gilly, and he had toys and sweets wrapped in brown paper and brought - express delivery, mind! - to their house, to reach them at the same time as the turkey. Once he was quite set, he bought a ticket for the train - it was, as he said, only a few pennies! - and off he was.

The landscape around him was akin to a fairy tale - the hills were drowned in snow, and all over kids were sleighing, couples were walking, and cheer was found. Oh, even on the train was merriment, for someone had brought a harmonica, and as they played, all song along, and Jon knew every word and bellowed it as brightly as he could.

But his destination was further than the train could bring him. So he waded through the snow, his excitement too great to wait and fetch a carriage, and once he laid eyes on his destination, he felt his heart fill with joy.

There it was, just like he remembered it - his childhood village! It looked so peaceful between the snowy trees and hills, and it was only just coming alive, for all who lived within were only just leaving church.

Jon walked past them with a smile, but though he recognised people, no one recognised him, for he had been gone for years, and he had never been dressed as well as he was that day. In fact, when he greeted people, they seemed to shy away, for who could offer appropriate greetings to a man of such wealth?

By the time Jon walked through the gates of the church, he found the doors being shut by a woman. Not just any woman mind - _the_ woman! He knew her silver hair at once, and her fine, green dress, and he was in no hurry to have her turn, for even the sight of her back was as pleasing to him as anything.

She was taking care to lock the doors, and Jon approached her quietly in the snow, his voice almost a whisper as he said: “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, merry Christmas,” she spoke, and only then did she turn to smile at him. Alas! - her smile froze the moment she laid eyes on him, and her lips grew quite round. She was so shocked to see him that all the colour drained from her face, as had she seen a ghost, and the idea gave Jon a chuckle, for he had seen plenty himself.

“My love,” he said, and he stopped before her.

“Jon!” Daenerys said. “I cannot believe it - is it truly you?”

“It is,” Jon nodded, and his lips fell to a sorrowful grimace. He could no longer look her in the eyes; instead, he gazed on the ground before him as he grew quite red. “I am afraid I return with embarrassment, for I have been nothing short of a fool. I should never have left. I fought so hard to make myself a wealthy man, and it is only now I realise that gold is nothing without love, and love is nothing like gold.” As he spoke, mist escaped his lips, and it danced around Daenerys as she stood on the steps to the church and watched him with shock.

“I still don’t understand,” Daenerys said. “It is you?”

Jon took off his hat, and he held it to his chest. “My love,” he said, “I have thought of nothing but you, yet I have not acted upon it. Therefore, should you wish me to return to London and be gone forever, I shall act at once and do just that. Only, my heart ached to see you once more and beg your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it.”

“My love,” he continued, “it is Christmas, and it was at Christmas I left, and Christmas I now return home. Truly home. That is - if you will have me?”

For a moment, there was just quiet between them, and Jon felt at once that he knew the future of the spirit to be true - oh, he would have to suffer grief, there was nothing else to it!

But no - sudden, as sudden as he had arrived, as sudden did Daenerys throw her arms around him and held him close, and her hug warmed his heart and caused tears to well up in his eyes. “Oh, Jon!” she said, her nose pressed to his frosty coat, “how I have missed you!”

“No more than I missed you!” he guaranteed, and he too closed his arms around her slender frame as he held her tight.

“Whatever caused you to come home?” she asked.

And Jon could only admit: “You did.” He looked down at her, and she glanced back up at him, and nothing felt more natural than to place his lips on hers and kiss her. She tasted sweet, like sweetened fruit, and she smelled even sweeter, like candy-canes and warmed mulled wine, and Jon wanted all of her at once - it was almost too much to bear!

Before his heart could truly burst, she let go of him, and instead she held on to his hand. “Will you come with me to your family?” she asked. “I always go for Christmas.”

“Would they have me?” Jon asked, and he was met with laughter.

“Have you? They will never let go again!” Daenerys promised, and Jon knew it to be true at once, for she had spoken the words, and she had never lied to him.

So they walked, arm in arm, toward the Stark estate, and the snow fell around them, and Jon knew in his heart: this was a merry Christmas indeed, and many more were to come. For he had found love, he had found home. He had found the spirit of the season.

..


End file.
